


With Blood Like This

by Kendrene



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Angst, Blood and Gore, there is a bit of hope at the end
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-09
Updated: 2016-11-09
Packaged: 2018-08-30 00:53:01
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,942
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8512471
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kendrene/pseuds/Kendrene
Summary: Lexa has triumphed. She has survived the Conclave and is now Commander. As usual, all victories come with a heavy price.
OR
Lexa gets the tattoo on her back and we find out a bit about her Conclave.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [piccilover33](https://archiveofourown.org/users/piccilover33/gifts).



> I do apologize for being unable to provide you with much needed fluff today. I tired and failed, but I hope the sliver of hope at the end of the one-shot is enough to redeem me.
> 
> This was based on a prompt I received on Tumblr from my dear friend @piccilover33 inspired by awesome art by @pillowfortkingdom. I don't know how to link the specific post, so here is the blog link 
> 
> http://pillowfortkingdom.tumblr.com/
> 
> Also, I picked Cetus as a name for Luna's brother, because it is the name of a Constellation meaning "Sea Monster". Figured it would be apt for a Boat Clan Initiate.
> 
> As usual, kudos and comments are treasured.

 

You lay on your stomach, the hard slab of stone beneath you utterly unwelcoming to your tired, battered limbs. The thin sheet covering the granite isn’t enough to preserve your naked body from the chill transferring from the stone to your limbs, and the braziers burning at the corners of the room can lessen the bite of winter only so much. 

The mouth-watering, disgustingly sweet stench of your own burned flesh still clings to your nostrils, collecting at the back of your throat as if you greedily took a bite of meat too big for you to swallow. Ironically that is exactly how you feel regarding your newly won position as Commander and a familiar fear that holds you every night like eager lover settles into your bones. 

You are afraid that the war you will be forced to wage will chew you into a bloody paste and spit you out a corpse, and the possibility of failure terrifies you. Titus hoped to have knocked the admittance out of all of you aspirants, but you are also afraid to die, as is the natural state of people your age, except you live in a world of warriors where such things are never given voice.

You shift, trying to gain a semblance of comfort, and if someone were to look upon your face now they would never guess your thoughts. You wear a mask of stoicism that makes your jaws hurt and your teeth ache, calm like hardened crystal so far removed from the maelstrom whipping your insides into a frenzy that it seems impossible for these two sides of you to occupy the same body without it spiralling into war and mutual annihilation.

The stitches along your ribs tug painfully, the cauterized cuts on your shoulder still burn with the lingering aftertouch of the hot iron, and you suffocate a hiss against your forearm. Nyko has come and gone, taking care of your wounds without a sound. The man has always been kind to you, but now you feel a rift has opened between your existences - you’ve climbed on top of a mountain and he has remained below, watching as your figure became smaller and smaller until it vanished in the distance.

Now you are waiting for the tattooist to come and ink the deaths you reaped onto your back. Titus calls this an accomplishment, but for you it’s bittersweet. You have not told him why, because you know he’d never understand as he doesn’t see past the honor of your position.

The room grows dim around you as fatigue pulls your eyes shut and you abandon yourself to fitful sleep and memory, skin pebbled by the cold and the anticipation of the needle’s piercing touch.

* * *

 

_ The floor is back with spilled blood.  _

_ Your boots slip and slide around as you wade through it, fighting for balance on the courtyard’s flagstones, so awash with the liquid there isn’t one spot left untouched. It is surprising really, how much blood a body opened from collarbone to groin can let out, along with offal.  _

_ Something viscous and slimy sucks at the heel of your boot and you stumble, glancing down at the mass of bloody intestines you stepped into. You are distracted from the space of a heartbeat, but the opening is enough for your adversary to lunge forward with a roar of triumph. It rattles you, not because of the blade rapidly descending towards your head, but because Luna’s brother has been utterly silent until now.  _

_ The crowd roars with him, assuming that you are done for and that your brains will soon join the gore already tinting the square, and you do the only thing that’s left for you to do, something that every warrior would despise you for, something Anya taught you as a last resort.  _

_ You retreat. _

_ Instead of parrying the downward swing, and probably shattering your wrist in the process, you throw yourself to the side, losing your sword as you tumble away in a desperate leap and the Initiate’s blade strikes the spot you occupied a moment earlier.  _

_ Cetus’ axe bites into the pavement, sparks flying off the dark iron as the half-moon blade strikes stone. Granite dust puffs up in the air and he pulls the weapon free, whirling around to face you with a snarl pulling his lips back, exposing his teeth in the maddened rictus of a beast that has smelled blood and will pursue until the prey is torn apart between its working jaws.  _

_ Gone is your childhood friend, replaced by a bloodthirsty berserker of a man, dark grey eyes holding nothing but the desire to win the duel. You have landed into a low crouch and shift your balance to the balls of your feet, waiting for him to advance on you, taking advantage of the fact that you are weaponless. His sister Luna, the only other Initiate left standing, watches from among the crowd, face impenetrable. Whoever wins between you and her own brother she will have to face.  _

_ Cetus towers head and shoulders over you, and despite his frame conserving some of the leanness of youth, he’s broad-backed and strong enough to whirl his axe without apparent effort. He swings at you almost lazily, slow enough that you can scuttle back without danger, the wind of the blade passing more than a hand from your face, like a caress of violence to come.  _

_ He pushes you further back and away from your fallen sword, glinting mockingly in the pallid light of a deep winter day. To get it back you will have to throw yourself close and at the mercy of his axe. _

_ You look into his eyes and know there is none left and that no quarter will be offered.  _

_ He saunters closer, swinging again, a bit faster, a touch closer this time and you stand your ground, barely angling your torso back slightly, a small, contemptuous smile playing along your lips. As you had hoped, it doesn’t go unnoticed and his sweat slicked face darkens as he frowns.  _

_ He shifts his hold on the weapon’s shaft to a two handed one and cuts from left to right, his hands so tightly wound around the axe’s handle, you hear the leather bindings creak softly.  _

_ You drop down, blade whistling over your head and surge up within his guard, the heel of your hand connecting with his chin. His jaws click shut, teeth biting into his tongue as a spurt of blood wets his chin and Cetus staggers backwards, the weight of the axe half turning him away from you and dragging him to his knees with a loud thud.  _

_ He throws his hands out to stop his fall and the wicked blade skids away, clinking with a clatter that is music to your ears.  _

_ Before he can rise and regain his bearings you are on top of him, scrabbling up onto his back like those pets favored by the southern clans. Manki you think they are called.  _

_ The useless thought slips away from you as soon as your hands find purchase around the flesh of his throat, corded muscle and tendons bulging under your touch as you begin to squeeze the air and life out of him.  _

_ You grunt as he totters to his feet, trying to disloge you, then hiss, then snarl, your rage bottomless as if you had a tank of it in your chest instead of a heart, and all you have to do is twist the stopper off it to rip apart the man bucking and gasping for air beneath you. _

_ Rage boils over, threatens to drag you under as you lock stares with Luna. You are angry at being still alive, angry at a tradition that forces you to kill your friends, angry at your own blood that you never considered as much of a curse in the past as you do right this instant. _

_ Your gazes remain tangled and your anger surges all the more when you realize that what her eyes hold isn’t reflected anger, but the most profound pity.  _

_ You force your own eyes wide open and stare into the face of mercy even though you know you’re irredeemable. _

_ You keep squeezing. _

* * *

 

 

Your eyes snap open sullenly as the needle bites into a particularly tender spot along your spine and tense, feeling the tattooist's hand hover uncertainly for a moment, a breath away from your throbbing skin. 

“Apologies,  _ Heda _ ,” The title is minty and new and (or so you feel) deeply undeserved, You still haven’t taken the Flame and already people view you as a being of legend, human and yet above human, eternal like the coming of winter despite being mortal. You aren’t sure you deserve to be treated with such honors, the blood you spilled encrusted, heavy like lead, beneath your fingertips. Tears sting the back of your eyelids and you force yourself to breath deep, even breath knowing that the man at your back is still frozen, suspended in a moment stretching to infinity and waiting for your command. 

You wonder if he would stay like that forever, should you decide to remain silent.

“You can continue.” You manage to keep your voice from shaking, and use the cloth beneath you and your crossed arms to hide the few tears that manage to leak down your cheeks despite your herculean effort. 

You are grateful for the piercing pain of the needle, while the deaths you reaped are transferred to your back like a silent, immutable testament, whether to your skill or those that passed away remains to be determined.

You are grateful for the dampness of the ink, seeping under your skin and the droplets of blood that trickle down your back, heralding the tide you know is to come as you continue the last Commander’s efforts of bringing the clans together.

You hope, foolishly so, like the girl innocent of the ways of the world that you so desperately wanted to be and was never allowed to become, that this quiet time will last forever so you won’t have to face a future that is going to test and possibly break your mettle, and a bitter taste fills your mouth as you know your first act as  _ Heda _ will have to address the apparent betrayal of your former friend.

You hope you will be able to offer Luna a measure of the mercy Titus mistakes for cowardice, for you know that, had you two crossed blades, there would have been more than a good chance that you would have returned to the mud alongside her brother.

The ink oozes deeper as the needle travels down your spine to the small of your back and you allow yourself to grieve as no Commander is allowed to do, for a childhood you never really knew and a world too cruel for hope.

And it is with a flash of stubborness and rebellion that you take hold of a decision and make it your vow: whatever happens you will try to never forget mercy, in the hope that if you keep its fires alive within you, one day blood will not necessarily have more blood.

Your lips set grimly and you frown, hardening yourself and setting to the task in your mind, conscious that the road to peace will be paved with the rotten bones of those who will not bend their knee and the sacrifices of the ones brave enough to follow you.

When Titus finally comes to collect you for the Ascension your face is smooth serenity once more.

The cloth you rested your cheek on is perfectly dry.

 

**Author's Note:**

> A special note to my US friends: the times are dark, but don't let go of hope. Stick with each other, look out for the people you love and know that you are not alone. We stand with you.


End file.
